No, this isn't right, it's day, and he's dressed differently, and the hallway isn't the same. He's too taken aback by the changes and the sudden, jagged break in his memories to realize what Castiel's up to until the angel grabs him again. It never feels as though something good will happen when an angel puts its hands on him. Although he doesn't outright fight like the Mirror had, he accepts the touch with about as much willingness.
Once Castiel lets ago, he's free to make a fist and scoot backward through the mess until he's at a safe distance to stand, unmindful of the other sharp edges littering the ground.]
What do I know? What do I know about what?
[Someone should be explaining that to him, not the other way around. He doesn't know what a Mirror is supposed to be, let alone what it means to find himself on the floor at Castiel's feet.
At the twinge of pain in his abdomen, Adam pulls up his shirt, exposing gauze and bandage. He rips it away. Underneath is the stitched-up remains of the injury the roots had given him when they'd burrowed in. He presses down on it with the thumb of his other hand, confused; the pain is twice as intense as that of the cut on his palm, but it's real.]
The grey roots--
[He remembers. The roots, and then the other person slipping inside...]
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No, this isn't right, it's day, and he's dressed differently, and the hallway isn't the same. He's too taken aback by the changes and the sudden, jagged break in his memories to realize what Castiel's up to until the angel grabs him again. It never feels as though something good will happen when an angel puts its hands on him. Although he doesn't outright fight like the Mirror had, he accepts the touch with about as much willingness.
Once Castiel lets ago, he's free to make a fist and scoot backward through the mess until he's at a safe distance to stand, unmindful of the other sharp edges littering the ground.]
What do I know? What do I know about what?
[Someone should be explaining that to him, not the other way around. He doesn't know what a Mirror is supposed to be, let alone what it means to find himself on the floor at Castiel's feet.
At the twinge of pain in his abdomen, Adam pulls up his shirt, exposing gauze and bandage. He rips it away. Underneath is the stitched-up remains of the injury the roots had given him when they'd burrowed in. He presses down on it with the thumb of his other hand, confused; the pain is twice as intense as that of the cut on his palm, but it's real.]
The grey roots--
[He remembers. The roots, and then the other person slipping inside...]